Honour Be Damned (24 page)

He didn’t hang around to find out, instead ordering his men to move out. Aramon immediately began to move off in front of them, and nearly earned himself a sharp rebuke to get out of the Lobster’s way. Oddly, de Puy and Ghislane had not stirred, and he saw them exchange a glance that hinted at some form of communication. Then the Frenchman gave the most imperceptible of nods, and Ghislane hauled on her reins. There was a temptation to leave them all behind. But then Markham reckoned that the case for taking the horse had not altered, and if his ploy with the rockets did not produce the desired result, then that would be his final act. That would especially be the case if they faced more cavalry. Abandoning his men would be hard, but he had no choice.

Looking back, he saw the first trace of smoke rising through the treetops. Where had those rockets landed, in front of the French or behind? His aim was the former, so that the spreading flames would set up a wall of fire that they dare not try to cross. The wind
would fan the flames until the conflagration reached the edge of the fields. What happened then, he could not tell, but it might be that the entire forest would have to burn before the end. If he was in command of those French troops he would get out of the woods pretty damn quick!

The first sign that they might have done their work was the silencing of the drums. There was a long silence before the trumpet blew again, and Markham was sure that what he was hearing was the sound of the French army being recalled. Now they were all jogging along, Aramon’s servants included, two of them hanging on to the straps of the horse, the other its tail. Ahead of them, in the clear morning light, they could see the outline of the hills that rose towards the distant Alps, still capped, no doubt, with snow. That was all they had to get across to be safe.

Markham was working on the theory that whoever was in command of those troops had taken up his position on the southern slopes to catch him. He’d had the impression from the previous day of units which, while much more numerous than his own, had finite resources. Several factors pointed to this; the lack of more cavalry, the way that Lieutenant Andoche Junot had halted his men rather than take heavy casualties, and finally the method used by whoever was in command. He had spread his men thin, using bells rather than sheer manpower to trap them.

If that put them on the other side of that blaze and they like him were on foot, they could not move at a much faster pace than he. And as long as whatever gap he had was maintained, he’d have time to asses the situation when he came up, as he inevitably must, against the fighting troops on the border.

‘Fouquert,’ he said, his breathing heavy, the map he was trying to read while still moving bouncing before his eyes. ‘You know the dispositions of the French forces, which route will take us out with the least risk.’

The Jacobin renegade was reluctant to answer, that was obvious by the guarded expression on his face. And he tried to take immediate advantage of the request by demanding that he be allowed to ride.

‘What? Let you on a horse. You’d be off and running before you got a second foot in the stirrups. So stop bleating and answer my question, or we’ll never get out of here.’

There was a long silence, if you allowed for the sound of pounding boots, before Fouquert answered. ‘The army set to
march on Piera Cava through the Gorge de Vesbule is no more than a thin screen.’

‘It is a feint then.’

It was like drawing teeth getting an answer, but it came eventually.

‘One of them. But that is the obvious route for the Bouche de Rhone army to take if they wish to invest Cuneo, which they must do before they can advance on Turin.’

Markham called a halt, lined his Lobsters up to the rear, and told everyone to take a drink of water. Huge clouds of smoke covered the western horizon, blown north on the wind, evidence that the forest was truly well ablaze. But he put that out of his mind and concentrated on showing Fouquert the map he was using, which ran out just to the east of the Grasse road.

‘Point me to where that is.’

Fouquert traced a route with his finger, one that was going due east then hooked up slightly.

‘Distance?

‘To the point where the armies are facing each other, some three-and-a-half leagues.

Markham translated that into twenty or so miles. A long way for men on foot under a hot sun. ‘So the Piedmontese defences there would be relatively heavy?’

‘Bonaparte thinks so, and he must have good reason.’

‘Spies?’

Fouquert nodded, and Markham presumed that in the placing of those the ex-representative on mission had taken a hand.

‘Do you think the forward elements of the French army know of your downfall?’

That stung the man, the word ‘downfall’, and for a very brief second the cruelty that was his abiding trait evaporated to show something less hideous underneath, something almost human. But Markham wasn’t moved to any form of pity by it. If he ever softened on Fouquert, all he had to do was conjure up an image of burning buildings, that scarred, deranged monk, this man, and a torch.

‘News spreads fast,’ he responded gloomily. ‘And there will be a reward if it is known I have escaped.’

Markham was thinking twenty miles and more, of which they had covered perhaps two or three. It was a long way to go. But up ahead the country started to break up, no longer undulating and
open, but hilly and wooded. That might add length to their journey, but it would also conceal them from view. All they had to do was to get across the Grasse road without being observed.

‘Monsignor, Mademoiselle Moulins, I suggest you dismount and walk the horses. They will be of no use to anyone if they are blown.’

Aramon complied, handing the reins to one of his servants. But she did not, immediately. Again Markham had the impression of a form of silent communication with de Puy, a need to check with him that what was being requested should be obeyed. Watching the pair, he realised that they were a great deal closer to each other than he had supposed. And suddenly Markham had a very good idea where Bellamy might be.

It was the absence of Renate, of course, as well as the Negro marine. The assumption he and Aramon had made was the same. That the pair, attracted to each other in what they perceived to be a hostile world, had taken the chance to desert both unit and mistress. And that interpretation made a great deal of sense. When would either find themselves in a territory when her mistress and his officer could not pursue them? Revolutionary France might be in turmoil, but what better place for two such as they to choose?

‘Move out, walking pace, and keep a sharp eye out for anything human. They don’t have to be soldiers to tell the men pursuing us where we have gone.’

He took point himself, leaving Fouquert to the tender care of a delighted Tully, who informed the Frenchman that every stumble and he would feel the tip of his bayonet. Markham was half inclined to interfere with that. After all, if they did work a miracle and get through, Fouquert had important information. They would have heard of him, the Piedmontese, but they would take gratefully every scrap of information he had to offer.

And Fouquert would be just as keen to give it to them, that being the only thing that would save his neck from a rope. He might even be in a position to distribute a share of his rewards. But Markham stopped himself from thinking along those lines. The man was just using them. Once he got where he wanted to go they would be dropped like a hot stone, and the swine would hog to himself whatever was going.

‘Make it two digs, Tully, one for me and one for you.’

Determined to be watchful while out front, he nevertheless could not help remembering everything that had happened from
the day that they’d set out from Corsica. Ahead he saw the first hint of the road, a snaking line that ran between trees, and also disappeared into deep hollows. There was a simile there, since it was hard for him to stop his mind wandering down blind alleys. But he struggled though the maze of conflicting facts, assumptions and impressions, until he felt he had arrived at a logical solution. That didn’t make it right, but it made some kind of sense, which was a great deal more than could be said for what seemed like the surface story.

‘Coach, your honour,’ said Rannoch, who certainly had the best eyes in this complement of Lobsters.

‘Where?’ asked Markham, angry with himself that he had, despite his best efforts, allowed his mind to wander.

Rannoch was pointing north-east. ‘It was coming down that hill, but it has just gone out of sight in a tree-lined valley. I reckon that is the route ahead, by that line of poplars. So we must either go to ground here or find some cover nearer the road.’

‘You’re sure it was a coach.’

‘It might have been a wagon.’

Markham was actually aware that they had a long way to go, and precious little to sustain them on the way. ‘With food?’

‘I cannot say in truth. But it is possible.’

‘We must find out. Take the men on and line them up to intercept from behind the trees.’

‘Fouquert?’

‘Keep him with you. Just make sure he’s not killed.’

He then turned to face the others, addressing his orders to Aramon.

‘Please stay here and remain dismounted. We are going forward to intercept some form of horse-drawn conveyance. It may be carrying some kind of food.’

‘Then take my servants,’ said Aramon.

He and his party had started out with even less than Markham, and the Monsignor was a man fond of the comforts of his belly. Hard tack and water, which is what he’d been on for two-and-a-half days was not much to his liking.

‘Will your servants be of any use?’

‘They are more than mere retainers, Lieutenant.’

‘Are they indeed?’

‘They are members of the Pope’s Swiss Guard.’

He wasn’t surprised. He’d seen them as too fit and alert from
the first. And they made the journey without complaint, as befitted the mercenaries with the best soldiering reputation in the world. But his reasons for agreeing were not those of necessity in terms of armed numbers. It was another one of those exchanged secret glances between de Puy and Ghislane.

‘They may go on if they wish. Tell them to take up a position beyond my men. If the conveyance gets past, they must make a move to stop it. Since we cannot be too careful, I would also appreciate your presence, Monsieur le Comte.’

‘You will forgive me if I decline, Lieutenant. I’m afraid that the idea of killing my fellow countrymen no longer appeals.’

‘It’s not that, is it, my friend?’

‘The ambush?’ said Aramon.

‘Will be carried out by my sergeant without my help.’ Markham said, before turning back to face de Puy, at the same time easing Fouquert’s double-barrelled pistol from his belt. ‘What I am more concerned about is how I am going to recover the person of Eboluh Bellamy.’

‘Who?’ asked de Puy, looking confused, as if the name meant nothing to him.

‘Tell me Monsignor, when did the count inform you of the location of your treasure?’

The memory clearly revived Aramon’s anger, judging by the deep scowl on his face. ‘This morning at first light, when he awoke from his interminable slumbers.’

‘And had he told you last night, would you have actually waited till daylight?’

De Puy had gone stiff and was deliberately not looking at him.

‘Of course not. I would have taken a lantern to the ice house and dug it out.’

‘Well, monsieur,’ Markham said, his eyes back on the Comte de Puy. The man declined to reply, so he continued. ‘Very easy for two Negroes to move around unseen in the dark. All they had to do was disrobe to become near invisible. You had distracted the Monsignor and his men by going to sleep, and such was their mistrust and anxiety that they would not let you out of their sight.’

He turned to Ghislane.

‘But Bellamy needed time, so you were sent to distract me. I must say you succeeded beyond the Comte’s wildest imaginings.’

Aramon’s jaw had dropped. From behind Markham came the sound of shouting, that followed by a shot. He moved sideways,
enough to see that the coach was stopped and surrounded by red coats. He waited a moment, but since no further shots ensued, he returned his attention to Ghislane, though careful to keep what was happening on the road on the edge of his vision.

‘I hope you mixed business with pleasure, Mademoiselle. I certainly did.’

De Puy was looking at her in a strange way, not willing to believe the import of Markham’s words. He would not say anything outright. It was for her to confess rather than for him to reveal. Even having been taken for a fool, he had to admit it had been enjoyable. And with no other information to work on, he had to believe that what she had told him about her situation the previous night was true.

‘All I want is my black marine. The treasure I care nothing for. That is a matter for the Monsignor.’

Feet were pounding to one side, with Yelland yelling at the top of his voice. ‘Your honour, Fouquert’s been shot.’

‘Damn!’

‘He ain’t dead, just winged. It were his own damn fault. Oh! And we’ve got that dwarf of an officer you had words with at Toulon. He’s the one who did it.’

‘Bring the horses!’ he shouted, then set off at a run.

T
here was a crowd round the coach, of his men as well as Aramon’s servants, with Fouquert lying half in and half out. He recognised Bonaparte immediately, even in his black, gold-trimmed general’s uniform, complete with the broad tricolour sash. That sallow skin underneath the large flamboyant hat, the piercing, small black eyes and that air of the fanatic that seemed to surround him.

He was standing with two lieutenants at his side, away from the coach, the trio covered by a pair of muskets in the hands of Quinlan and Ettrick. They were tense, but he looked unconcerned to be so threatened, as if no one would dare to harm him.

Markham pushed through to examine the wounded man, seeing the blood that had stained his chest and spread to cover the front of his shirt, mingling with that which had dripped on to it the night before. Rannoch was to the side of him, pressing a cloth to the wound to stem the flow.

‘It is not a wound to kill him. The ball is not lodged, but he will need the services of a surgeon to stitch him properly nonetheless.’

‘What happened? How did he come to be in the line of fire? The man’s a coward.’

‘We stopped the coach without much bother. The men on the seat were not like to be brave faced with a dozen muskets. Then Tully and I went to one door, while the priest’s so-called servants took the other. I think the three of them saw the situation as hopeless, right off, for even with their pistols out, they declined to fire.’

How long, thought Markham impatiently, as Rannoch meandered though his tale at his usual slow pace. But he kept the look of interest fixed on his face so as not to offend his sergeant.

‘Then they got out. Yon little fellow in the middle was just about to hand over his pistol when that stupid sod Fouquert let out a screaming curse and went for him. The officer raised his pistol once more to defend himself and this is the result.’

‘It didn’t occur to anyone to shoot him?’ asked Markham, jerking his head towards Bonaparte.

‘Fouquert was in the way.’

Markham slammed an angry fist against the side of the coach.

‘How in the name of Jesus, Joseph and Mary are we going to get him to Piedmont with that kind of wound. He will lose too much blood just moving. Get him off the road and into the coach.’

His eyes went to heaven, before settling on the little Corsican general. Suddenly he smiled. Why take the dancing bear when you could take the handler? It was an entertaining notion. Bonaparte had drawn up the plans for the invasion of Italy. He knew more about them than Fouquert did. There was one obvious drawback! The man wouldn’t speak. But perhaps he could get him to confirm that the exit route Fouquert had chosen, through Gorge de Vesuble, was indeed lightly manned.

‘See if there is any food in the coach. If there is share it out. And Rannoch, keep an eye on the Comte de Puy and Mademoiselle Moulins. If they try to sneak away, stop them.’

That produced a look of wonder. But if Rannoch expected to be informed why, he was doomed to yet more disappointment. Markham turned away and went over to where the two Londoners were covering the French officers.

‘Christ, look at this hamper,’ he heard Leech cry. ‘There’s enough grub in here for a regiment.’

Markham still had his loaded pistol, and he re-cocked it.

‘Go and eat, you two, or there will be nothing left. Tell Sergeant Rannoch to post a guard up and down the road. They are to stop any traffic, and take possession of anything they think we might need.’

The pair needed no second bidding. They were gone and Markham was alone with the captives. He nodded his head, in what was meant to be a slight bow.

‘General Bonaparte.’

‘I know you. We have met.’

‘Toulon, monsieur. At a place you called “The Battery for men without fear”. That night I tried to destroy it, but you were waiting for me.’

Bonaparte turned half right and left. ‘Allow me to name my two aides, Lieutenant Andoche Junot.’

‘I think we too might have met,’ said Junot. ‘Or at least spoken to each other.’

‘And this is Lieutenant Auguste Marmont.’

‘Sir,’ said Markham, returning Marmont’s bow.

‘Forgive me, Lieutenant, but I cannot recall your name.’

‘Markham, sir. George Markham.’

Bonaparte said ‘Ah!’ Then he looked at the filthy scarlet uniform, and the aiguilettes on the shoulder. ‘That is a marine coat, is it not?’

‘It is.’

‘I recall you as an infantry officer.’

Markham produced a wan smile. ‘65th Foot, sir, but not much loved by my colonel. I was rewarded with this for my actions at Toulon. Though I am forced to admit you seem to have done very much better out of the siege than I.’

‘I was told that there was a party of British marines around. I am forced to enquire why you are so deep inland?’

That was sophistry. He could not know the real reason. But with Fouquert lying there bleeding like a stuck pig, there could be little doubt of what he was up to now, his being in the company of the man who’d stolen his plans.

‘That, sir, I cannot tell you,’ Markham replied, playing out the game.

‘I thought you would have been captured by now.’

‘We marines are elusive types.’

Bonaparte waved an arm to the billowing clouds, far off but still visible through the trees. ‘You?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me what you did!’

It was like an order not a request, delivered in that staccato voice he remembered, which given their respective situations was damned odd. But then the man was deranged. Markham obliged, not forgetting to acknowledge the clever idea of rigging the cowbells.

‘You were lucky to have those flares. What would you have done if you had been without them?’

‘Used my imagination, sir.’

Bonaparte was not the type to laugh. The nearest he got was another loud exclamation and a wave of the arms to include his companions.

‘There you are gentlemen, spoken like a true soldier. I should have taken charge personally. You would not have eluded me.’

‘You are sure, sir?’

‘Very. I too have imagination. I would have set fire to those woods as soon as I thought you were in them. Then my troops would have surrounded the area to ensure you could not get out alive.’

Halsey came up behind him, carrying food and a flagon of wine. Markham took it gratefully, and started eating, using the silence to collect his thoughts, before resuming his conversation.

‘My task was to get that man to Italy.’

‘Fouquert?’

‘Who else?’

‘I cannot see why.’

‘Yes you can, General. He has your plans for the advance on Turin. He stole them. Your men have been chasing him for days through those very woods. If he can be got to Piedmont, you will have to call off your attack. And given the precise location of your troop strength, it wouldn’t surprise me if the Piedmontese didn’t launch a counter-offensive to push you back to your own French soil.’

Bonaparte positively smirked. ‘They would get a bloody nose if they tried.’

‘The question is, General, now that I have you, the man who actually wrote the plans, what am I going to do?’

‘I suspect you are going to let me go on my way.’

‘Sorry. It seems I must take both you and Fouquert through the front lines.’

‘You would take that scum to safety?’

‘Not through choice. I remember what happened in Toulon. I have also seen some of his handiwork since. Personally, I’d rather string him up to the nearest oak. But I made him a promise, that if he told me the details of your plan, then I would take him to a place where he would be safe.’

‘As simple as that.’

‘You arranged for a feint in the Gorge de Vesbule did you not, a thin screen of troops to fool your enemies into keeping their own forces there in strength.’

What surprised Markham was the way Bonaparte reacted. He should have tried to look unconcerned, as should his aides. But for him to actually laugh was play-acting of a different order. And Junot and Marmont produced genuine smiles.

‘So he did tell you my plans?’

‘Every last detail,’ Markham lied.

‘What a pity they are now of no use to anyone?’

‘I admire a man who can bluff, General Bonaparte.’

The little Corsican reached inside his black coat, and pulled out a heavy packet of letters. ‘You speak good French. How do you read it?’

‘Passably well.’

Bonaparte shuffled through the pack, finally choosing one and offering it, his voice casual and conversational.

‘This is the order from Paris, signed by Lazare Carnot, calling off the proposed attack on Italy. This one, also from him, is an instruction for me to proceed to join the Army of the West under General Hoche. He is controlling operations in the Vendee around Nantes.’

‘Then you are headed the wrong way, General,’ said Markham, taking the letters. He was genuinely stumped by the easy manner of their delivery and the allusion to the route was clutching at straws.

‘I shall go via Marseilles to visit my family, then proceed to Paris. There I will take hold of Carnot’s nose and twist it for daring to suggest that I serve under a peasant like Hoche.’

Both his aides laughed in a rather sycophantic way, at what was clearly a joke they’d heard before.

‘I am not without powerful friends in Paris, Markham.’

The object of that remark didn’t care what he had in Paris. He was reading the first letter, which was a copy of an order sent to the Commanding General in the South, Sherér. And it said exactly what Bonaparte had claimed. That the invasion was to be abandoned, and the army to march back to Marseilles to be available for other duties.

‘We shall invade Italy one day,’ said Bonaparte, his tone bombastic. ‘And that is an assault I will lead personally. Then we will not have any of the palpitations that have afflicted that old fool Sherér.’

He couldn’t have contrived this, and no amount of wishful thinking on Markham’s part could make it so. These letters were official, of that he was certain, just as their meeting on this road was coincidence. Not even the most fertile brain could conjure this one up.

‘Sergeant Rannoch?’

‘Sir,’ he replied punctiliously, in a voice designed to impress these Frenchie officers.

‘Is there any luggage on the coach.’

‘Plenty, sir. I would say all the kit these three officers need for a long journey.’

‘A copy of the plans Fouquert stole are in my writing chest. You can take them if you want. Examine them and you will learn something about higher command, strategy and the movement of large bodies of troops. They are subtle but very, very clever.’

The voice changed to become hard again. ‘Carnot is a fool. We could have had Turin like that!’ He clicked his fingers loudly. ‘Instead of that he wants me to go and do battle with a load of ignorant peasants in a stinking Loire bog.’

‘What nonsense,’ said Junot and Marmont in unison.

‘And what of you, Lieutenant Markham. I doubt you can just walk through the Gorge de Vesbule. But if you stick to the high ground you should be safe. There are no longer any troops on the heights at all.’

‘Then the Piedmontese will walk through and attack.’

Bonaparte spoke slowly for once, as if Markham was too dim to perceive the obvious. ‘Not with the Army of Savoy to the North. They risk being outflanked. And they are not very good soldiers, you know.’

‘And if I invite you and your aides to accompany me?’

‘That would be foolish. Right now, no one will stand in your way. Take us and the country will be up in arms. You cannot just make us disappear. But maybe I can do you that favour. Yes, under certain conditions I can see myself letting you go on your road, without hindrance.’

‘And what would those conditions be?’

The flippant tone vanished. ‘Give me Fouquert.’

‘Clever, General, You will take from me the only insurance I have, the man who knows your plans.’

Bonaparte smiled, a thin humourless affair that was not funny. ‘But you said he had told them to you. Why do you need him?’

A clever man had trapped him. And he held in his hand letters that told him Fouquert had become superfluous. ‘You said you had a copy in your writing case?’

‘I do. Junot will fetch it for you.’

Markham nodded and called out to his men to let Junot proceed. It must have been handy, since he didn’t even climb into the coach to get it. He just reached in and pulled it out. The case was made of fine polished oak, inlaid with the initial ‘B’. Junot
held it and Bonaparte opened it, extracting a thick sheaf of parchment tied at the right edge with red ribbon.

Markham took it, called Quinlan and Ettrick back to guard duty, then went back to the coach. Fouquert was lying flat out across one of the padded seats, alternately cursing and moaning, but definitely conscious. Aramon was on the other seat looking at him with disgust.

‘Please help me, Monsignor. I want him upright.’

The wounded man cried out as they lifted him, somewhat over enthusiastically, to Markham. He would milk his pain, that was for sure.

‘Do you recognise these?’ he asked.

Fouquert peered at the sheets, with Markham flicking them so that he could read them. ‘You have to tell me if these are the real plans for the Invasion of Italy. If they are, I can shoot those three officers and we can take written proof with us to the Piedmontese.’

Would he have got away with it if Fouquert had not been wounded. It sounded very flimsy to him. But the man had stiffened perceptibly at the notion of shooting Bonaparte, so Markham added the
coup
de
grace.

‘I’ll even let you kill him.’

‘That’s them,’ Fouquert gasped. ‘The original of those I stole. Where’s that shit Bonaparte.’

‘Outside, awaiting his fate.’

‘Give me a knife and tie his hands and feet.’

‘You are wounded.’

‘I will manage,’ Fouquert spat. ‘I shall cut off his Corsican cock first.’

‘Lieutenant!’ said Aramon, alarmed.

Markham pushed Fouquert hard, so that he flew backwards, and landed painfully. Then he stood up and leapt down to the ground, to rejoin the three French officers.